


Everything I Need I Get From You

by moodlighting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Worship, Christmas, Established Relationship, Historical, Irony, Kissing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poverty, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodlighting/pseuds/moodlighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical AU. It's two days before Christmas, and Harry has only two pounds and thirty pence to his name to purchase a gift for Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything I Need I Get From You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on one of my favorite stories, "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry. I missed all of the appropriate seasonal deadlines for posting this, but it's not very Christmas-y anyway so I hope you'll forgive me. I did very little research for this fic and wrote the whole thing on a whim, so please pardon any historical inaccuracies you may find.
> 
> Special thank you to my forever fave [Kasia](http://fakeaheartattack.tumblr.com/) for being a very willing and very encouraging last minute beta! <3
> 
> Title taken from One Direction's I Want To Write You A Song

It’s two days before the Christmas holiday and Harry Styles has worked himself into a dreadful state, not for the first time this week. For going on two hours now he has been traversing the London streets, and his toes have long since gone numb inside his tattered leather boots, exposed to the chill of the air and the frozen cobblestones for far too long. But he cannot stop yet. Pausing at the bustling street corner of Eighth and Mulberry, Harry tears his frigid fingers anxiously through the locks of his hair, his nose scrunching in that terrible way it does when his thoughts wander in the altogether morbid direction of his finances. As his thoughts often seem to do these days.

While he waits for the steady stream of automobiles to pass, Harry stuffs his fingers into his pocket - a nervous tic he’s been fraught with for weeks - and again, he is met only by the lint lining the thin creases of his trousers. From his other pocket, he withdraws his wallet and counts what he finds inside, for what must be the eighth time this day. Two pounds and thirty pence - the same as every time before. Once again, no new notes seem to have manifested in the leather folds of his pocketbook.

Two pounds and thirty pence. It is two days before Christmas, and that is all Harry Styles has to his name. He heaves a weary sigh and turns his face to the churning sky. His eyes sting with it, the smog particularly grievous today, the stink of coal thick in the air with the bitter cold. It looks as if it may begin to snow at any moment. Everything surrounding him is grey, and as he replaces his wallet in his pocket, Harry thinks to himself, _This will never do_. He had worked terribly hard for months to put aside enough money for the holidays, always depositing any leftover coins he had after leaving the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the cobbler’s around the corner.

Yet here he is, on the corner of Eighth and Mulberry, with only two pounds and thirty pence in hand to purchase a gift for Louis. His Louis. And Harry despairs for it. He had longed to purchase something nice this year for his Louis, his love, and had spent many happy hours pondering the thought. Now, Harry hangs his head in sorrow, all high hopes dissipating along with the rush of exhaust that clears as the traffic finally ceases before him. The flesh of his toes peeks from the torn holes in his boots as Harry steps out onto the street. For today he will have to abandon his search for Louis’ gift and finish only what he had initially set out to do. The chill will permanently settle in his lungs soon enough, and Harry most certainly cannot afford that.

Upon reaching Seventh, Harry turns left and heads in the direction of the pâtisserie, intent on spending his last pounds on the item he’s had in mind all afternoon. For if tomorrow is Christmas Eve, that means the day will also be his Louis’ birthday. A smile works its way to Harry’s lips at the thought. Had his birthday not been the day before the holiday, Christmas would still remind Harry of Louis. The cheer, the warmth, the joy of it. The colors, crimson red and evergreen, bold and bright. All of it - what it means to be Christmas - is what it means to be Louis as well. Harry has always thought as much.

When they were children, Johannah used to whisper tales that led them both to believe that the glad tidings were in celebration of Louis. For years, the wonderment that appeared in Louis’ eyes at the realization was always reflected in Harry’s eyes too. They’ve learned better, of course, proper grown ups as they are now, but the thought still lingers with Harry. If anyone deserves to be celebrated, it’s Louis. And as he enters the pâtisserie, the warmth of hot ovens and the scent of anise enveloping him, Harry intends to do just that. Even if he may not be able to afford a Christmas gift this year, Harry will still celebrate Louis’ birthday properly.

He trades his two pounds for the largest sticky roll on the rack. The bread looks flaky and perfect, caramel droplets seeping from its edges as it shimmers with a layer of butter under the warm lighting of the shop. It will be richer than anything he or Louis has tasted in months. The roll is bagged with as much care as it deserves before being laid gently into Harry’s waiting palms. It’s still warm through the coarse paper, and Harry nearly feels guilty for taking the pastry out into the cold. But he tucks it close to his coat nevertheless, bending at the neck to hide his own face from the searing wind as he begins the journey home.

-

If one is being most generous with their words, Harry and Louis’ flat might commonly be described as ‘modest’, or perhaps, ‘quaint’. There is not much more to be said about it than that. Both of their wages combined could never pay for a living space any more lavish than what they’ve already acquired, so Harry simply does not desire for more. It’s home regardless, peeling yellow wallpaper, threadbare carpeting, broken letterbox and all. They’ve furnished it as best as they could over their year and a half tenantship, procuring a dining room set, a sofa, and even a royal purple armchair that Louis has claimed as his own, though it remains double his size. Keying into the flat, Harry can easily envision how Louis would curl up in that chair now, feet tucked beneath him to keep his feet from the cold, dozing against the headrest. Louis is not home yet, however, and Harry will not be expecting him for hours to come.

Louis works as an orderly at St. Thomas’s hospital, a truly miraculous appointment that had come to them just when it was most needed. His hours remain long and arduous, extending late into the night most days, and the pay is still rather unexceptional, but Louis has been promised job security and opportunities for advancement, and those are benefits that cannot be denied. Louis is working an evening shift again tonight, and Harry sighs mournfully at the thought of falling asleep without him once more. He will be in bed long before Louis returns to the flat.

It’s not an uncommon occurrence, and Harry does not allow it to put a strain on their relationship. Employed as a clerk himself, Harry’s work hours are contained entirely during the day - the precise time in which Louis is most often at home, reclaiming his own sleep. Having recently been hired by their neighbor Mrs Adderly, who operates the toy shop next door to their building with her husband, Harry’s work has also been extended into the early evenings. When the Adderlys had first advertised for additional help for the holiday season, Harry had been more than willing to take on the task to better accommodate his and Louis’ compounding bills. The longer days have left him weary to the core, however, leaving behind an aching tiredness that weakens Harry’s shoulders and sits heavy at the center of his chest. He has not spent more than a handful of hours with Louis since the month began, but still, Harry does not allow it to strain him. They must do what they have to do, and Harry knows things will not always be this way. He clings onto hope for that time arriving sooner rather than later.

The winter days are shorter than ever as the year’s end draws nearer, so by the time Harry has finished a late meal and his toes have subsequently thawed, the flat is dark. A yawn seizes him where he sits on the sofa, pen and paper in hand, trying to organize his thoughts into words. The effort is fruitless when the glow of the lamps already has Harry’s eyelids slipping shut before the clock has struck ten. He still has not resolved how he will purchase a Christmas gift for Louis before the holiday arrives, and a nervous tremor grips him again as the worry flickers across his mind. But tomorrow is another day, Harry decides, and he resigns himself to settling the issue then.

Flipping three pages back in the journal, Harry carefully rips out the page he had finished earlier in the evening, looking over his lines of messy script once more to ensure he’s included all that he means to say. It reads like this:

 

_Happy birthday, my love. I know it is late, but I also know it will never be too late for sweets for you, will it? I wish more than anything I could spend your day with you tomorrow, and catch up on all that we have missed of each other these past weeks, but time seems to have gotten away from us once again, that villain. I simply have to remind myself that Christmas is only another day away, and that we will have an entire day to ourselves then; I can hardly wait for it. Have a wonderful birthday, darling, and wake me before you go to sleep tonight - even if I’m already snoring. And I am quite serious about that, Lou._

_All of my love to you, always._

_Yours, Harry_

 

Harry smiles to himself, satisfied with what he’s written. Midnight will have come and gone by the time Louis returns to the flat tonight, bringing Christmas Eve upon them, so Harry finds it more than appropriate to treat Louis for his birthday as well - even in its earliest hour. He folds the page along its center and scrawls _Louis_ on the front side, tenting the note next to where he’s plated the sticky roll. Harry laments the fact that he wasn’t able to bake something himself for Louis’ birthday, but he lets the thought quickly slip away. Another year, perhaps.

After washing his hands in the basin and putting on his pyjamas - the warmest to be found in his drawer - Harry turns in early. The bed remains entirely too empty for his liking as he drifts off to sleep.

-

It must be well past half two when Harry is gently roused from his slumber that night, a weight stirring him as it bears down on the mattress. Flat on his stomach, eyes still drawn shut, he feels knees on each side of his legs as they carefully crawl further up his body, up the bed. Harry smiles sleepily to himself and does not move a millimeter, pleased that Louis has actually heeded his wishes for once. Cold hands work their way under his sleep shirt and Harry shivers, muttering disagreeably at the chill of them. He hears Louis breathe out a quiet laugh above him. Their flat has a dreadful draft that leaves cold fingers and toes in its wake throughout all of the winter months, and Louis takes great amusement in plastering his cold extremities on Harry’s warm skin whenever the fancy strikes him, no matter how hard Harry may be attempting to avoid the chill himself. Harry will gladly keep Louis warm for the rest of his life, however - even if he does protest.

With deft fingers, Louis grips the bottom hem of Harry’s shirt and slowly eases it up his back, bowing his head to lay kisses on each bit of newly exposed skin he uncovers. His lips are cold, much like the rest of him, but they rapidly warm with each kiss he presses to Harry’s sleep-warm back, alternating between lascivious and chaste. Harry shivers again as a thread of heat uncoils in his belly, a twist of arousal he had not anticipated but welcomes nonetheless. Harry hums happily, longing to return Louis’ amorous touches but still too encumbered by sleep to withdraw his hands from beneath the pillow.

As he carefully maneuvers his way up to Harry’s shoulders, mouthing along his spine, Louis’ hands fall to Harry’s sides, where they stroke up and down from his ribs to the soft flesh of his hips, tender and comforting. The touch asks for nothing - there simply to feel their skin together, and it is so settling that Harry nearly drifts back to sleep before Louis’ lips have reached the base of his neck. When he does arrive there, however, Louis kisses just once at the side of his throat, with intent, before rising up onto his knees and lifting all of his weight from Harry’s rear. With hands soft and sure, he turns Harry over, guiding him by the shoulders until he’s lying on his backside, still within the bracket of his legs.

Harry settles back against the pillow, tendrils of long, dark hair fanning across the linens, and finally blinks open his eyes. Without a second glance he finds Louis’ face in the darkness, smiling gently down upon him, blue eyes twinkling even in the absence of light. The look of adoration evident upon Louis’ face promptly coaxes a smile onto Harry’s lips as well. Not breaking their gaze, Louis sits Harry up for only a moment to lift the shirt from his shoulders, then he’s taking his jaw in both of his warmed palms and bending down to kiss him once more.

Harry’s eyes flutter shut at the first press of their lips. Louis tastes of mint, and he’s soft where Harry curls his hands into the silky strands of hair at the back of his head. He smells of the soap they have in the basin, a trace of vanilla fragrance, and Harry falls into the comfortable familiarity of it, glad that the sharp scent of hospital antiseptic Louis often carries home with him is absent. Harry smiles into their kiss as he eases Louis’ mouth open with his own lips, exhaling a contented sigh when their tongues meet in a warm, welcome slide. Together, entwined, they melt into each other in their bed.

The moments pass without hesitance, with kisses neither lacking in heat nor searing, until slowly, their mouths yield against one another and halt altogether. Still seated atop of him, cupping one side of Harry’s neck, Louis presses their chests together and buries his face into the curve of Harry’s shoulder, breathing him in softly. It feels more intimate than any moment they’ve shared in more weeks than Harry would care to count. He folds his arms around Louis’ back in return, feeling the silken smoothness of his skin under his palms. He breathes him in as well.

“Do you want me?” he asks, the first words they’ve uttered to one another in the dark of their bedroom. Harry would never forget it is Louis’ birthday, even in the peculiar hour of morning they’ve found themselves lost in.

Louis hums. “Always want you,” he whispers back. “But not tonight. Want to sleep next to you, s’all.”

Harry smiles. Grasping Louis tightly in his arms, he rolls him over onto his side, working them both under the sheets before shifting in close. Louis’ head falls against Harry’s shoulder, a loose fist resting at the center of his chest, and there’s not a whisker’s worth of room between them as they breathe together in time. Louis’ eyes are shut as Harry kisses his lips once more.

“Happy birthday, Lou,” he murmurs. He threads the single lock of hair that’s fallen onto Louis’ cheek back behind his ear, stroking his fingers reverently across his love’s face - lingering at the edge of his smile - before following the curve of Louis’ body down to rest his palm at his waist.

They sleep tenderly.

-

If asked, those who knew Harry and Louis in the years before their London life would likely remember them fondly as schoolyard best mates, inseparable from the time when they were wild youths to the time they grew into even less sensible adolescents. It is probable that those same individuals would not bat a single surprised lash to find Harry and Louis living together in their bachelorhood now. Yet, if the years were to continue passing in a similar fashion, those childhood acquaintances of Harry and Louis’ would be altogether aghast to find them growing old together, in what may very well be the entirely real, most imminent future.

Those contemplative enough to put a moment’s worth of decent thought to the situation would likely begin to suspect the truth between them within minutes of any concerted investigation. But Harry has never wished to hide that knowledge from anyone. He’d tell everyone if only he could, if the one simple truth behind his and Louis’ relationship wouldn’t end with them both locked in an iron cell, or worse. Their closest friends and family know - an unwillingly kept secret becoming willingly divulged to those who can be trusted enough to protect it - but to the public, they will remain bachelors as long as they can both keep up the pretense.

It’s not difficult to conceal when nobody wants to see the truth to begin with. Renting a two bedroom flat only to sleep in one bed may be a hardship, but it is a required one in order to maintain their charade. Harry and Louis will do what they have to in order to preserve what little freedom they’ve found together. Harry does not allow it to weigh on him - he simply welcomes the small gifts they do have. He does not yearn for a different life, for the thought of living one without Louis at his side is enough to have him reject the notion entirely, a splitting pain carving out his middle. No, Harry would not change a thing.

By dressing in the common fashion and holding himself in the proper way, by speaking of women when he must and not speaking of Louis when he must not, and most importantly, by keeping to himself, Harry has remained largely free from suspicion over the years. At the present time, the only indication one might have to his true proclivities may very well be his hair - historically deemed far too feminine by those grasping (too tightly, in Harry’s opinion) to gendered standards.

Considering this, it is an occasion hardly worth noting when, at midday on Christmas Eve, a gentleman finds himself in company acceptable enough to bark out an eloquent, “Queer!” as he passes Harry in the middle of the London street.

It is not the first day Harry has had vitriolic words hurled his way on the street. The issue used to vex him more, before he came to the conclusion that the only part of his appearance that might inspire such hostility in complete strangers is his long, brown curls, the same locks that now fall well below his shoulders. To keep others comfortable for the safekeeping of his home, Harry is more than willing to make sacrifices, and make them frequently. But his hair is simply not one of them.

Whether you call it vanity or call it naïveté, Harry treasures the way his hair makes him feel. In a life lacking of many worldly possessions, his hair is one thing that Harry takes pride in. Though he has never been one to be overly concerned with his appearance, Harry’s hair brings him a sense of confidence, and that is one feeling worth expending a bit of pride over. He loves to have his hair played with, braided or wound between kind fingers or laced with flowers by the Teasdale’s daughter. He loves being able to tie it up with twine at work to keep the errant curls away from his eyes. He loves to have it tugged, and to have it washed by hands other than his own, and to have it stroked until his eyes grow heavy and he drifts off to sleep. And Harry knows, in all of these ways and more, that Louis delights in his hair just as much as Harry does himself.

Because of this, and because it is Christmas Eve, and because Harry has far more pressing thoughts presently crowding into the corners of his mind - how he intends to afford a Christmas gift for Louis being the foremost one - Harry nearly passes the unsavory gentleman without a tremor of interest delaying him. But on this day, as that hateful word is aimed in his direction, Harry passes a sign hanging most prominently in a shop window that has him halting mid-step.

The sign is yellow, with large, bold lines of script that immediately draw the eye. Harry wrinkles his nose up at it, disturbed by the choice of words but begrudgingly impressed by the insistent alliteration. He reads it again:

MME PETTYFOUR’S. TIRED OF TRYING, TROUBLESOME TRESSES? PART WITH YOUR PRETTY, PRECIOUS PELT FOR A PERFECTLY PLENTIFUL PRICE. INQUIRE INSIDE.

Harry’s heart rate skips in time as the realization sweeps over him, anticipation stirring in his chest. It hardly takes an additional second of thought. Without hesitating, Harry charges through the shop door, not allowing himself the opportunity to reconsider his actions. He heaves himself up the first flight of stairs he encounters, taking only a moment to collect himself on the landing, then rushes into Madame Pettyfour’s salon.

The shop is empty when he enters, much to Harry’s dismay. Occupied by three chairs placed in front of three large mirrors, the room is small, but with no customers present, nor attendants to greet him, Harry’s eagerness quickly begins to wane.

Warily, he calls out into the silence, “Madame?”

He does not receive a reply, and Harry’s heart falls in his chest. He had been so convinced that he’d found the solution for his aching, empty pocketbook, but it appears that his rotten luck has overcome him once more. Defeated, Harry is prepared to turn around and leave the salon, empty-handed, when a large, portly woman enters the shop behind him.

“Sir?” she asks, catching Harry unawares. Startled, he whirls around in surprise, the heel of his boot catching on a loose floorboard and nearly toppling him over. The woman only chuckles at his gracelessness. “How can I be of service to you, sir?” she asks again, steadying Harry by the elbow.

Harry pulls himself upright, blushing furiously. “Madame Pettyfour, I presume?” he replies, clearing his throat in a small attempt to regain his composure.

“I am, sir,” Madame Pettyfour laughs. “What can I do for you?”

Again, Harry does not allow himself to hesitate. “Will you buy my hair?” he asks, straight away.

The Madame hums thoughtfully in response, eying him carefully from boots to brows. With precise fingers, she lifts one perfectly curled ringlet away from his shoulder, inspecting it. “Your hair,” she begins. “It is untreated?”

“As virgin as I, Madame,” Harry nods his head eagerly.

Madame Pettyfour’s responding laugh booms from her belly, so loud in the small shop that Harry’s ears begin to ring. “Now that I do not believe at all, good sir!” she crows. “You are a tomcat if I’ve ever seen one!”

Harry smiles at her winsomely, thinking himself quite the opposite. “Nevertheless,” he digresses. “You will buy my hair from me?”

With another calculated look, Madame Pettyfour reaches forward and gathers the mass of Harry’s hair at the base of his neck, weighing it in her hand. “Twenty pounds,” she answers, resolute.

Harry nods eagerly once more. “That is all I ask for.”

“Then take a seat in my chair,” Madame Pettyfour says, directing Harry to the seat in the center of the room.

With practiced ease, the Madame drapes a satin cape over Harry’s shoulders and brushes out the length of his hair, settling it all behind his back. They talk pleasantly while she goes about her work, and it is not until she withdraws her scissors from the drawer with an air of finality that Harry gulps, the reality of what he is doing finally settling in.

“Are you quite alright, Harry?” Madame Pettyfour asks, noting his apprehension.

Voice tremulous, Harry replies, “Just give it to me quick.”

And so she does. With only a brief touch of cold metal on his neck and one easy snip of the scissors, Harry leaves Madame Pettyfour’s salon that afternoon with a lighter head of hair, a noticeably heavier pocketbook, a sense of remorse sinking in his stomach, and another, even more commanding feeling of elation in his chest that comes with the knowledge that he now has exactly enough to buy Louis what he deserves this Christmas.

-

Each morning when he dresses, Louis Tomlinson slips into his waistcoat a tarnished old pocketwatch, a family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his mother’s grandfather before his death. It is something Harry has seen on Louis’ person since they were both very young, something intrinsic to Louis himself. Though it still does not prevent him from being late to any and all appointments, Louis diligently watches the time on that pocketwatch every day, as if fascinated by its very passing, and he can often be found taking the watch from his pocket to fiddle with when he believes no one is watching. Harry, however - ever attentive to Louis - has always noticed.

Harry knows the pocketwatch is one of Louis’ most prized possessions, and it is a timepiece of far greater value and distinction than the leather strap with which Louis carries it. Which is why, when Harry had first set eyes on the elegant silver watch chain in the jeweler’s window one evening last August, he had immediately decided it was an item Louis must have. At the time, Harry could never have hoped to afford it. But now, on Christmas Eve, with twenty pounds in his pocketbook, Harry returns to the jeweler’s and purchases that very same watch chain. He is filled with pride and satisfaction when he slaps his notes upon the glass counter and receives such a fine silver chain in return; a chain both delicate and sure - well-deserving of his Louis.

There is a skip to his step, and love and good-giving filling his heart as Harry makes the journey home that evening, the chain wound protectively around his fist. Under the streetlamps flickering to life, his mind whirls as he contemplates what Louis’ reaction to his gift will be. He certainly will not have expected something as fine as this, and Harry’s cheeks flame with the joy and anticipation of it.

Yet, even this overwhelming tide of selfless emotion cannot quite quell the sadness that comes with what Harry has done to achieve it. A frown falls back onto his face as he remembers, and he lifts a hand to feel around the trimmed edges of his curls, now bunched close to his head.

Louis will notice, of course. Immediately upon entering the flat, he will know what Harry has done. Harry tries not to let it worry him, however - Louis will love him just the same, of course he will. It is only hair, after all. But Louis will certainly still have questions. _I’ll just have to tell him straight away_ , Harry resolves. _Easy enough - I’ll give him his gift tonight, by way of explanation. Then he’ll understand._ Harry nods hastily to himself and quickens his pace, hardly feeling the cold in all of his eagerness to make it home before Louis arrives.

It’s not until he’s keying into the flat that the nerves first start to settle in Harry’s belly. _But what if the price I paid was not worth it after all?_ he worries. _What if Louis was happy with the leather strap and did not desire a finer chain?_ As the doubts crowd deeper and deeper into his mind, Harry, by habit, attempts to wind his anxious fingers through the length of hair resting at his shoulders. When he is met only by the coarse wool of his coat, a cold trickle of dread sinks into Harry’s chest. _What - what if Louis no longer finds me attractive?_ he fears.

Slamming the front door shut behind him, Harry tears off his scarf and coat, throws open the closet door and drops them both unceremoniously to the floor, ignoring the empty hangers altogether. In a sudden fit of distress, he starts up a steady rhythm pacing across the sitting room floor, worrying himself over every doubt that presents itself to him. With each minute that passes, Harry works himself into an even worse state than he was in the moment before. He finds himself constantly checking the wall clock, watching the ticking hands bring Louis ever closer to home, until he simply cannot aggravate himself any longer and forces himself to sit in the kitchen and be reasonable. His knees still jump anxiously beneath the dining room table, and Harry begins to dread the sound of footsteps outside the front door. How did this holiday turn so sour without any manner of warning?

Minutes pass as if they are hours, until Harry has lost count of their progression and lost himself to his thoughts entirely. He is still seated at the table, feet wrapped around the legs of his chair, anxiously winding and unwinding the watch chain around his palm when he hears a key turn in the lock. Harry startles in his seat at the sound of it but urges himself to remain calm - there is nothing he can do to change his circumstances now. Resigning himself to whatever may happen, Harry can only offer up a single, solemn prayer to the heavens, as he often does each day. Typically, it is for the wellbeing of those around him, or the strength to do good in this world that Harry prays for, but tonight, Harry prays for himself. _Please God,_ he pleads, _make him still love me._

The front door swings open and Louis walks in.

Harry’s chin had already begun to wobble before Louis even arrived, so when Louis steps into the kitchen and immediately freezes at the sight of him, Harry feels himself crumple. From the way he is looking at him, Harry cannot recognize what Louis is feeling, what his reaction is, and it frightens him. He does not understand it - there is no anger in his eyes, nor shock or disgust, just an entirely blank expression drawn across Louis’ face as he continues to stare at Harry, saying nothing.

They gaze at each other in silence over the span of five heart beats, until Harry cannot take the tension any longer. “Louis,” he whimpers. “Please don't look at me like that.”

With an infinitesimal shake of his head, Louis slowly blinks himself out of his stupor. “You...you’ve cut off your hair,” is what he says, seemingly unable to comprehend it, words as sluggish as his thoughts.

Though it is not posed as a question, Harry still rushes to answer it. “I couldn't bear not giving you a gift for Christmas, Lou, and I couldn’t afford one myself, so I cut my hair off and I sold it,” he explains, words spilling erroneously from his tongue. “You don’t care, do you? It's just hair, it'll grow back. My hair grows very fast, I promise.”

Louis blinks owlishly at him again. His lips part but no words follow.

Stricken by Louis’ lack of response, Harry only grows more desperate. “Please stop making that face, Lou - you don't even know what I've gotten you yet!”

Louis nods slowly, still in a daze. “You say your hair is gone?” he asks again, brows furrowing as if he cannot fathom the thought of it.

At his words, Harry's heart stutters to a stop, and he feels tears begin to form behind his eyes. This is going even worse than he had anticipated. Louis does not care for him at all now. “I’m still me,” he pleads, swallowing a sob. “I'm still the same without my hair.”

Again, Louis says nothing. His eyes begin to search the room around them, bewildered, and Harry chokes out a bitter, agonized laugh. “You don't have to look around for it, it's gone, sold. I haven't hidden it away.” Harry scrubs away the single tear that has fallen down his cheek. He thinks he's never felt as miserable as he does now. He averts his eyes away from Louis, gathering the courage to ask, to have his worst fear finally confirmed. “Do you -” he whispers as soon as he can speak, directing his words down at the scroungy floor. “Do you not...like me anymore?”

This seems to startle Louis out of his daze, and he turns quickly to gaze at Harry again. Seeing the tears glistening on his cheeks, he stumbles forward in a rush, nearly falling over the chair next to Harry in his haste to sit in it. “Oh, love,” he says, taking Harry’s face in gentle hands and thumbing away the tear tracks. “Don't cry, Harry. Please understand me, there's nothing in this world that could make me love you any less than I do. Especially nothing as insignificant as a haircut.”

Harry’s broken heart begins to thump in his chest again, relieved and revived by Louis’ words. _Love you, love you, love you,_ it beats out. Feeling stronger, Harry takes a chance to peer up at Louis’ face, his lips still pouted. When their eyes meet, Harry finds Louis’ to be kind and loving, as blue as a smokeless sky, the same as they have always been. He sniffles miserably, turning his cheek further into Louis’ palm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, feeling foolish and hurt.

Leaning forward until their legs entangle, Louis puts his arms around Harry. He kisses once at the side of his lips, tender and doting. “Nothing to be sorry for, love,” he whispers, navigating his kisses across Harry’s cheek until his chin comes to rest on Harry’s shoulder. “I should be the one apologizing, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just surprised, s’all.”

Harry embraces Louis back fiercely, relieved and overjoyed to have in his arms all that he had convinced himself he’d no longer get to keep. He can’t bring himself to speak, so he doesn't. Louis manages to say all that they need to regardless. “I love you,” he murmurs, lowly and simply into Harry’s ear. “You never need to worry about that.”

Harry nods against his shoulder. “I love you too,” he replies. He indulges in the strength and warmth of their embrace for a long moment before adding on a quiet, “Happy birthday.”

Louis laughs, stroking a hand up the broad expanse of Harry’s back to cradle the back of his head. “Already told me that last night,” he says.

Harry chuckles too. “Still your birthday,” he points out.

Laughing again, Louis presses a lingering kiss to the soft skin of Harry’s neck then pulls away, shifting back into his own seat. His palms caress down Harry’s arms as they fall away. When he reaches Harry’s hands, he takes them into his own.

Seated across from each other, Louis regards Harry carefully, a shimmer sparkling in his eye. Harry flushes under his unfaltering gaze as Louis reaches one hand forward and gently winds his fingers into the shortened curls at the top of his head. “Haven’t seen you like this in ages,” Louis remarks, tightening his fingers in his hair, making Harry shiver before releasing his grip. “When was the last time your hair was so short? We must have been what, sixteen, seventeen?”

Harry nods his head forlornly. “I look like a sheared sheep,” he laments.

Louis chokes out a strained giggle at Harry’s misery. “Oh, little lamb,” he says, failing not to laugh at his own joke. Harry pouts at him. “You’re still very handsome. Always curly and always wonderful, you know that,” he reassures. He plucks a curl from Harry’s head to watch it spring back into place. They laugh together, and Harry feels all of his misgivings begin to fade away.

It's not until his hand has returned to rest against Harry’s thigh that that faraway look overtakes the smile on Louis’ face once mroe. Harry frowns at him, concerned.

“What?” Harry asks, squeezing Louis’ hand, still folded into his own. “What is it?”

“It’s just quite funny, the timing of it all…” Louis begins, pensive. From the pocket of his overcoat, which Harry has only just noticed Louis hasn’t taken off, Louis withdraws a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied together with a lopsided bow of red string. “You see, I bought you a gift for Christmas as well. And I think if you open it, you’ll understand why I reacted the way I did when I came in.”

Frowning deeper still, Harry carefully lifts the package from Louis’ open palm. Delicately, he unties the bow and sets the string on the table for safekeeping before pulling apart the layers of paper. The edges fold away, and what Harry finds inside has him gasping, eyes darting back up to Louis’ face. “Louis…” he says in the barest whisper, his voice taken from him. Louis gazes back at him, a small, amused smile curving at his lips.

Harry turns back to the gift lying open in his hands. With gentle fingers, he strokes reverently at the beautiful patterned silk of the scarf, the same one he had been longing for for months. The flower printed scarf, blue with hints of gold, perfect in size and shape to hold back the longest lengths of his hair. Harry could never have hoped to own something so fine, so soft where it slips through his fingers, and now it is his. But his hair is gone.

“I know how much you loved it when we first saw it in the shop,” Louis explains quietly. “And I thought to myself, Harry deserves to have something more than twine to tie his hair back. So when I went to find you a Christmas gift...” Louis trails off, sheepish. He shrugs, as if his gift is nothing more than a trinket, not a treasure in Harry’s hands.

“Lou…” Harry whispers again, reverent. He sets the scarf, still held protectively in its wrappings, on the table and reaches forward to pull Louis into a kiss. It is nothing more than a wet brush of their lips, but Harry hopes it says as much as he is feeling. He is overcome, with gratitude, and with love, and by Louis’ thoughtful, encouraging devotion. “Thank you,” he breathes when they part, lips still grazing. His hand cradles the back of Louis’ neck, his thumb stroking over the soft, short hairs behind Louis’ ear.

“You’re welcome,” Louis sighs back, eyes closed. “Happy Christmas.”

Harry presses their smiling lips together once more before he lets Louis go. Leaning back in his own chair, Harry fumbles around for the watch chain, which he had frantically stuffed into his pocket to hide before Louis walked in. “I didn’t have the time to wrap it, but -” he grunts, struggling to free the chain from his trousers. “Happy Christmas to you too, Lou.”

The silver pooled in the cup of his palm, Harry presents his upturned fist to Louis and slowly unfolds his fingers, revealing the gift. Louis’ eyes widen at the sight of it, and he lifts his hand to support the back of Harry’s, fingers dancing across his knuckles. Tentatively, he lifts the chain from Harry’s palm, watching it unravel and glimmer in the light. “Oh,” is all he says.

“It’s a watch chain,” Harry explains. “For your pocketwatch. You won’t have to carry it on that rubbish piece of leather anymore.”

Louis stares down at the watch chain for another beat before looking back up at Harry, that same strange, blank stare fixed on the features of his face. Harry’s heart skips a beat. _Oh no,_ he thinks, a tremble of anxiety fluttering in his chest, returning along with his earlier fears. _Not again..._

But before Harry’s fear can bloom fully into irrationality, Louis speaks.

“I sold it.”

Now Harry is the one laboring to understand what is being said. He blinks back at Louis dumbly, stuttering, “You...you what?”

“I sold it. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your gift,” Louis declares. “I don’t have it.”

Time falters for a moment, the words spreading out and settling delicately between them. For the entire half minute that follows, Harry and Louis can only gaze at each other in utter silence, both contemplating this most unexpected moment of satire that has come to fruition in their small, unassuming kitchen. The clock continues to tick away on the wall in the sitting room, the lamps flicker around them, and snow drifts down in heavy, clotted flakes, glowing as they pass by their window. Life passes by them in spare moments, until all at once, both Harry and Louis burst into uproarious laughter, throwing their heads back against their chairs, their hands holding their reddened cheeks and the stitches in their bellies. The howl and they cry until they laugh themselves out of breath, and then their arms find each other again. Standing from their chairs, Harry and Louis come together with a force that can be felt a room away, embracing each other tight enough to leave no room for air between themselves.

They sway together until their laughter subsides, until they can finally breathe once more, and then, with smiles still straining their cheeks, they lift their heads from each other’s shoulders. Their eyes meet, sparkling and adoring, just before their lips join together.

At the very first touch, heat surges in the space surrounding them, the infinitesimal space between them. Their mouths open and close together, each kiss becoming lusher and more fervent than the last. Minutes pass by leisurely as tongues, hands, lips rediscover what has gone untouched for weeks - weeks of disparate schedules and long nights and lonely bedsides.

Their kisses grow deeper and deeper, hips beginning to work together of their own accord to create friction, and quiet sounds escape from Harry’s mouth, sounds that Louis responds to in kind with sweet, small whines. Through it all, Harry can feel himself going weak and wobbly in the knees. Distracted as he may be, he cannot even begin to recall the last time he felt this good - warm and cared-for and with Louis here to hold and touch and love. And when Louis sinks his teeth into the side of his neck, drawing from him a long moan, Harry quickly decides they will need to abandon the kitchen in favor of their bedroom, and soon.

After Louis has pressed a final, self-satisfied kiss to the bruising lovebite, detaching himself from Harry’s neck, Harry seizes the opportunity to take a step away from him. Eyes never leaving each other, Louis watches Harry intently as he slowly, carefully, removes Louis’ overcoat and drapes it across the back of the kitchen chair.

“Come here,” Harry whispers when he’s finished, voice rough.

He takes Louis’ hand and draws him in again. Louis holds each side of Harry’s jaw, tongue slipping into his mouth and teasing as they walk their way back to the bedroom. Together, hands wandering across chests, shoulders, hips, fingers grappling at buttons and trouser ties, they shed their clothing from one doorway to the next, until they’re falling bare into the welcoming sheets of their bed.

Much like the night before, Louis crawls up the length of Harry’s body, scattering kisses from his groin to the edges of his collarbones, from his thighs to his red, parted lips, begging to be kissed. “So gorgeous to me,” he whispers into Harry’s skin, worshipful. “Love you no matter how you look.”

Harry keens beneath him as he repeats such words of adoration again and again, but only ever holds Louis tighter, never pushing him away. “Love you,” he pants, Louis’ mouth beckoning gasps out of him, lips so close to where he's hard and dripping. “Need you, Lou. Need you, please.”

Abandoning his work, Louis leans forward to seal their lips together once more, licking in slow and gentle, loving him wholly. “Don't have to beg, love,” Louis whispers, stroking across Harry’s flushed cheek, behind his ear into the sweaty curls tangled there. “Never. I'm all yours.”

Harry sighs and pulls Louis into him, feeling their heated skin together and feeling at home.

They do not often have time to make love properly, so when they are presented with an opportunity such as this, on a snowy Christmas Eve, with only each other and their love to give, they make time to do it well. Their movements are unhurried, careful fingers coaxing, kisses spared between breaths, never any rush. They move together in rhythm, hands clasped and intertwined as Louis pushes inside and draws Harry’s breath away.

It is difficult for Harry to spare a single thought for anything less than this, not when Louis is the best thing Harry has had in all his life.

The draft of their flat becomes insignificant when Harry is warmed from the outside in, held up and held close by loving arms. Their secrecy is unimportant when there is nothing but openness between them, honesty and trust and giving. Their broken letterbox is only trivial when Louis dutifully takes the post with him each day to ensure Harry’s letters always make it on time. The world doesn’t feel so fragile when Harry is soft, yet so firm and certain beneath Louis’ hands. And their gifts, made purposeless by their sacrifices, are anything but worthless when bargained for with love, the same love they receive from one another now.

They let themselves be swept up in the steady rush of it, taking all that the other has to offer, quaking with pleasure until they crest and come down together. Whispering their love into one another’s skin, they lay tangled together until they can find their breath once more.

-

Later that evening, after indulging in a hot bath and a dinner of pork loin and wheat bread slathered with raspberry jam, Harry and Louis settle back under their sheets to laugh about their Christmas misfortunes once more.

“I think we would do well to forget about our gifts for a while, Haz,” Louis laughs, rubbing at the stitch in his side, still stinging after Harry’s tale about his time in Madame Pettyfour’s salon. “They are simply too nice for us. What do we even know about having fine things?” he jokes.

“Well I’m still using mine,” Harry protests, a petulant frown creasing his brow. He adjusts the pillow supporting his back, momentarily disturbing Louis where he sits in the splay of his legs. “I’m already planning to wear it as a headscarf once my hair starts getting long again.”

Louis rests his head back on Harry’s shoulder, lifting his chin to meet his eyes. “You want to grow your hair out again?” he asks.

“Of course,” Harry replies, assured. “I’m going to look like a right fool, though. You might not remember it from the first time, but it always gets a bit dodgy once it’s past my ears. I’ll need something to make myself look respectable again.”

Louis chuckles and shifts against him. “Maybe I’ll grow mine out with you,” he muses, voice distant as he turns the idea over in his mind. “Then at least we will look like fools together.”

Harry smiles, holding Louis closer to his chest. “I’d like that,” he murmurs in his ear, their cheeks brushing. He remembers how insecure growing his hair out had initially made him; it will only serve to bolster his confidence to have Louis at his side this time.

Louis smiles in return. “And it may be wise for us to discuss gifts before we buy them next year,” he quips, the moment of vulnerability passing them by as he curls his toes teasingly against Harry’s calves. “To prevent this comedy from happening again.”

Harry hums in response, considering it. “Could just avoid the practice altogether,” he suggests thoughtfully. “I already get everything I need from you.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t even ask for more.”

Again, Louis turns to find his eyes. They’re blissful and blue when Harry meets them. “Yeah?” Louis asks, voice pitched high and sweet.

“Yes, of course,” Harry says, bowing his head to kiss him once on the lips. Utterly besotted, he whispers a promise in Louis’ ear, the same one he intends to keep for the rest of his days: “Always.”

 

\---

 

_“The magi, as you know, were wise men - wonderfully wise men... They were the first to give Christmas gifts. Being wise, their gifts were doubtless wise ones. And here I have told you the story of two children who were not wise. Each sold the most valuable thing he owned in order to buy a gift for the other. But let me speak a last word to the wise of these days: Of all who give gifts, these two were the most wise. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise. Everywhere they are the wise ones. They are the magi.”_

O. Henry, "The Gift of the Magi"

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, you can find O. Henry's original story [here](http://americanenglish.state.gov/files/ae/resource_files/1-the_gift_of_the_magi_0.pdf). It's much shorter and much less gay, but worth the read!
> 
> [my tumblr](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/) \- [fic post](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/post/136144768015/everything-i-need-i-get-from-you-by-moodlighting)


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